


Honor System

by htebazytook



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 1900’s, 19th Century, First Time, Historical, M/M, Slash, Smut, snideness towards mormonism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-25
Updated: 2019-08-25
Packaged: 2020-09-26 03:30:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20382955
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/htebazytook/pseuds/htebazytook
Summary: Circa 1900, Crowley and Aziraphale reunite in the American South.  Is this some kind of Red Dead Redemption 2 crossover? You decide!





	Honor System

**Author's Note:**

> DISCLAIMER: Don’t own, don’t profit.

*

1863

If Aziraphale is honest with himself, he sometimes has trouble remembering to visit the post office. He’d stopped having mail sent to the bookshop ages ago because it inevitably piled up, got shoved into drawers or back rooms to be dealt with later, and was ultimately lost to time.

The last of the trees have unloaded their leaves and most Londoners are swaddled in long coats and warm hats. More and more black clothing, these days - undoubtedly influenced by the Sovereign’s continued mourning for her late husband, which is a terrible shame, but Aziraphale can’t help finding the darker palette rather bleak and disheartening.

The post office itself has stood at least since the Great Fire, and it looms over the swarming crowds with stoney stateliness. Aziraphale enters the building and the smooth bustle of street sounds is replaced by echoing footsteps in a marble foyer. He approaches a teller.

“Good morning, sir,” the teller says, more chipper in tone than he is around the eyes. “How may I help you?”

“Good morning, dear fellow! I am here to pick up my mail. The name is Fell, that’s F-E-L-L.”

The teller frowns. “One moment please,” he says, and scurries off. Aziraphale can see him talking animatedly with an older bank employee. When the teller returns it’s with a large dusty pile of paper. “That would be Mr A. Fell, would it?”

“Yes.”

“Right,” he says. “The thing is, sir, that nobody’s been by to claim mail under this name since the Regency.”

Aziraphale scoffs. “Well, that can’t be right, can it? I don’t mean to be immodest, but do I look quite that old to you, dear boy?”

“Well, no . . . “

“Then I’m afraid there must be some mistake.”

“There must be some mistake,” the teller repeats hypnotically.

“Indeed.” Aziraphale takes his mail and tips his hat. “A good day to you, sir.”

When Aziraphale arrives at the bookshop later there is a finely dressed lady peering in through the windows with interest. Aziraphale glares at her, and she suddenly remembers an important appointment across town. 

Aziraphale locks the door quickly behind him and makes a cup of cocoa. He settles in the back room of the shop and begins to leaf through his mail.

On top is a pamphlet about a new prophet in America that makes Aziraphale a little nervous - he doesn’t always read the fine print in celestial memos, and it wouldn’t do to be unprepared for any questions Upstairs might have about the fellow. Then there’s a wanted ad for factory workers (_Applicants over twelve years of age need not apply._), and an ad for the latest miracle cure, which _soothes toothaches, headaches, sore throat and more - guaranteed! Ask your druggist about Cocaine today!_

Aziraphale sorts through many more similar pieces of mail until he finally reaches the end. The bookshop does still have a mailbox, awkwardly placed and obscured by vines in a tiny alleyway, but despite these measures the occasional piece of mail does find its way inside. Aziraphale finishes his cocoa and leaves the shop to have a look. Nothing. But when he comes back inside he finally notices the envelope someone has slipped under the front door. It is addressed to no one, but he knows the serpentine squiggle etched into the seal. Aziraphale opens it with a thought.

> _Aziraphale,_
> 
> _There has been a string of suspicious deaths in America that Below wants me to look into. Lots of people being found totally drained of blood and it’s making the locals nervous about something supernatural afoot. I guess Below doesn’t like freelancers stealing their thunder. It’s a port city in the south that sounds a right bore but I have heard the beignets there are positively sinful._
> 
> _I know what you’re thinking, but don’t worry; I won’t interfere with the war so you needn’t follow me to thwart my efforts. I figure we might as well let the humans sort this one out, eh? They’re so good at it._
> 
> _Attached is the address I’ll be staying at, if you need to reach me._
> 
> _\- A. J. Crowley_

Aziraphale pretends he can’t imagine why Crowley wouldn’t simply inform him in person - things have been tense since the Holy Water Incident, but as with most problems between them, Aziraphale had assumed it would simply blow over in time. It hasn’t yet, obviously.

Come to think of it, they haven’t been on separate continents since . . . the 3rd century? No, surely it’d been around the time of the Han dynasty . . .

Aziraphale sighs and tucks the letter into his coat pocket. Crowley would come around. He always did.

* 

1888

“Saucy Jacky strikes again! Read all about it! Four dead and still no leads!” The boy waves a newspaper in Aziraphale’s direction. “What about you sir? Ha’penny for the latest copy of _The Star_, sir!” 

Aziraphale declines politely, although he does give the boy a shilling and compel him to get himself a good hot meal with it. Aziraphale continues on down the crowded, dirty street. It’s occurred to him that the Whitechapel Murderer ought to be infernal by nature, but of course Crowley has been out of the country for years now, and so the killer must be merely human. Which is just the sort of thing Aziraphale finds truly terrifying - and, the sort of thing he’d normally be talking to Crowley about . . .

“Aziraphale!” cries a voice from behind. The spark of hope in Aziraphale’s chest fizzles when he recognizes it as the newsboy’s. “BOY, ARE YOU EVER HARD TO GET A HOLD OF! WHEN WAS THE LAST TIME YOU CHECKED YOUR MAIL?”

Aziraphale turns and approaches the boy, who is shimmering around the edges now. “Gabriel?”

The newsboy gestures frantically. “KEEP IT DOWN! WE CAN’T VERY WELL HAVE HUMANS GETTING WIND OF THE ETHEREAL BEINGS IN THEIR MIDST, CAN WE?” Passersby are eyeing the boy suspiciously. The fact that his newspapers seem to have suspended in midair isn’t helping.

“Gabriel, I realize you don’t spend much time on Earth, but perhaps you ought to consider utilizing a different body?” 

The boy looks down at himself. “You know something? I think you might be right about that.” Then Gabriel is abruptly standing beside Aziraphale wearing a purple pinstriped doublet, hose, and a distressingly prominent codpiece. 

“How’s this?” he asks.

Aziraphale smiles tightly. “Much better.” People are staring. Aziraphale might see someone swoon out of the corner of his eye. “Why don’t we speak somewhere a little quieter?” he offers, and ushers Gabriel into The Ten Bells. It takes a few minor miracles to ensure the patrons don’t pay them any mind.

Gabriel commandeers a gloomy corner table and gestures magnanimously for Aziraphale to sit across from him. He folds his arms on the table but doesn’t say anything.

“So,” Aziraphale says. “May I ask what this is all about?“

“What do _you_ think it’s about?” Gabriel asks.

“Perhaps . . . in regard to Joseph Smith?”

Gabriel’s brow furrows. “What? No. Who’s that?” He leans across the table. “Let me cut to the chase, Aziraphale: the Industrial Rebellion. It’s quite something down here isn’t it? The place is definitely smoggier than I remember.” 

“Certainly. The leaps and bounds mankind has made in just a matter of years are quite remarkable - “

“Uh huh, uh huh - please pay attention for juuust a couple more minutes, okay?” Gabriel smiles unsmilingly. “Head Office has become aware that Vinland in particular is experiencing significant growth.”

It takes Aziraphale a minute: “Oh, right. I think they’re calling themselves The United States of America, at the moment. Um, America. Um.” Gabriel just watches him and Aziraphale hasn’t a clue what he wants him to say. “They . . . seem to be headed in the right direction, more or less. You know what they say, the arm of history is long, but it - ”

“Sure, America, whatever.” Gabriel leans impossibly further forward. “The thing is, you’re not _there_ to steer it in the right direction.”

“Well, no, but - “

Gabriel adopts an admonishing tone: “Now, Aziraphale. I could be wrong - but I _think_ your job as Heaven’s representative would include a firsthand knowledge of every nation of mankind to live on all the face of the Earth. Yes / no?”

“Well, yes,” Aziraphale concedes. “I see what you’re saying, Gabriel, but - all due respect - _as_ Heaven’s representative on Earth, I am a bit more attuned to the way things work here. America is still but a tiny, backward nation - in fact, it has been devastated by a civil war, and is at present in no shape to go empire building.”

“Really?” Gabriel asks, frowning.

“Yes, yes, you see - the feeling down here is really that America has got rather too big for its britches. I’m afraid it’s little more than a passing fad, at this point . . . “

But Gabriel seems unconvinced. “Still . . . Lateral expansion? Forward momentum? Eh?” He gives Aziraphale’s arm a little punch and stands up from the table. “Something to think about.” 

And he vanishes.

* 

1901

St James’s Park may not boast the amplest lawns or the grandest design in London, but Aziraphale still prefers it. No matter the fashion of the people who frequent the park or the political climate that surrounds it, its little lake remains the same, the menagerie of ducks and geese and occasional pelicans carry on about their lives obliviously, and the trees bloom sweetly every spring in a shock of soft whites and pale pinks. The first day of spring had been weeks ago, but today the sun is warm enough to temper the chilly air. Fragrant daffodils and earthy new grass dilute the smell of horses and industry that wafts in from the surrounding city.

Warmer temperatures and brilliant sunshine have lured Londoners of all walks of life out of their homes and the park is alive with people, chatting and laughing and caught up in the sense of renewal in the air. So Aziraphale is not alone today, standing at the water’s edge and tossing bread crusts to a trio of persistent tufted ducks. There is a bounty of life at every turn, God’s miraculous works on display in the sunlight, and Aziraphale is definitely not alone.

Added to the congregation are the preparations for young Albert’s upcoming coronation on the outskirts of the park. It feels like ages since the empire’s last proper king. This time around feels especially odd because Crowley and Aziraphale usually strike a bargain when the monarchy changes hands. A benevolent ruler in exchange for non-interference in the next armed conflict, for example; or, a corruptible one during an age of social reform. But there simply hadn’t been anything to discuss this time.

Well, there hadn’t been anybody to discuss it with, anyway.

As loath as Aziraphale is to admit it, the ducks are poor companions. Despite his dedication to feeding them, they aren’t exactly what one would call sentimental creatures. They gobble up bread scraps, say their piece through adamant quacking, and paddle on their way. Beautiful to look at, and graceful, but ultimately unoriginal and uncaring. The second they realize Aziraphale is out of food for them, they leave.

Aziraphale meanders away through the park, taking the path up toward Buckingham Palace to watch the Queen’s - sorry, King’s - Guard trotting from their barracks in fastidious formation. Uniform in both garb and affectation, and turning seamlessly together whenever the choreography requires it. Men and women - somewhat more brightly clothed these days, and the women with ever changing silhouettes - crowd the Mall to watch the procession.

Something about the entire display rubs Aziraphale the wrong way, and he begins walking home.

The truth of the matter is there are many such things he really ought to be discussing with Crowley, whether the demon maintains a residence in England or not. In fact, being on separate continents for so long can’t possibly be good for the balance of good and evil in their respective jurisdictions. Too much of one or the other is only bound to prompt Questions from their superiors.

Aziraphale hates to give Gabriel any credit if he can help it, but he probably is due a visit to America. He hasn’t been there since that embarrassing kerfluffle with the Roanoke settlers, and the less said about that the better. At the very least, he is obligated to check up on Crowley’s diabolical deeds across the pond. 

*

Aziraphale sails onboard the _Celtic_ to New York and is once again astounded by the ingenuity of humankind. He can’t remember a vessel this impressive since the Ark, and well, that wasn’t _all_ down to Noah, was it? The _Celtic_ has beautiful decks filled with beautiful people and fabulous restaurants and luxurious rooms and Aziraphale looks forward to seeing what the shipbuilders dream up next.

Even the more destitute among her passengers fill Aziraphale with hope - third class immigrants who endure meager living conditions onboard but are still buoyed up by the promise of a better future across the sea. Many of them are sick with consumption or worse, but they all find themselves in miraculously perfect health with an extra couple of coins in their pockets by the end of their journey.

Aziraphale isn’t in New York City for long, but it certainly makes an impression. Its sewage clogged streets are further blocked by dead horses, which in turn provide a banquet for more pigs than Aziraphale can count. He takes the first train south.

*

Aziraphale is startled from his book by a railroad employee at the front of the car. _We will be reaching our destination within the hour,_ the man announces, so Aziraphale tucks his book away and peels back the curtain across his window.

Outside are large, unfamiliar birds congregating in a swamp. The train churning past them startles a few into flight, but the others gaze boredly in Aziraphale’s direction - they are the old guard, and have become used to human disruption. Soon the swampland starts sprouting trees with wide exposed roots and silvery garlands of vegetation draped across their boughs. When the trees begin to thin there is the comfort of farmland, dust and cattle, then smaller houses giving way to bigger ones. A cobblestoned road beside the tracks now and the buildings growing closer and closer together. A shadow falls over the train and tall brick walls obscure the view until they finally grind to a halt in a loud, smoky station.

Aziraphale steps off the train and into thick heat and swirling dust. Disoriented, he follows the crowd to a main road and looks around for some clue to his whereabouts. The weathered-looking man leaning against a stagecoach seems promising - cabbies typically know all the best places in London.

Aziraphale hails him. “Excuse me, my good man. Could you please point me in the direction of your fair city’s finest ale house?”

The coachman squints at Aziraphale suspiciously. “Come again?”

Aziraphale beams at him. “The local watering hole, if you will. A place for drinking and merrymaking. What some might call . . . a den of iniquity?”

“Oh you’ll be wanting the saloon,” the coachman says, and points him in the right direction.

Aziraphale hops on a trolley to hasten his journey. The people of this city are of a different patchwork than the people of London. There are finely dressed ladies and gentlemen alongside the tanned and dirt-streaked faces of lone men on wild-maned horses. He hears slow drawling American accents intermingling with sibilant French and less frequent Mandarin. The city itself is a strange mix of elaborate architecture and unfinished roads, and finely manicured hedges that are skirted by bright elusive orchids.

Aziraphale disembarks as soon as the saloon is in his sights - a red and white corner building with electric lights along the awning and several horses hitched outside. He’s hit with a wall of noise when he steps inside. There’s a game of blackjack in the corner and some expensively dressed ladies loitering around the piano player. The bar itself is crowded, and has clearly become the home of loud and somewhat drunken business transactions between men with silken hats and ties. Aziraphale is finally able to beckon the barkeep, who slumps over to him looking thoroughly exhausted.

“What’ll it be, bougre? Whiskey? Beer?”

“Just information for now,” Aziraphale replies. “I’m looking for my friend, another Englishman.”

The barkeep sighs. “Don’t tell me you’re looking for Gavin too . . . ”

“Er, no. He goes by Crowley. He’s a bit funny - likes to wear tinted eyeglasses and dress in dark colors.”

The barkeep starts nodding. “Ohh, oui. Him I do remember. Arrogant man. Wears lots of black, cowboy hat?”

“Yes, that sounds right.”

“There’s a poker game in the back room around the corner there. You can find him there most days.”

Aziraphale tries not to feel too hopeful. “Thank you very much indeed.”

“Pas rien.” The barkeep mops his brow with his apron and Aziraphale can sense his tiredness again.

“Do you know, I’m not much accustomed to the heat in these parts,” Aziraphale says. “I shall have to remember to drink more water. And so should you - if you don’t mind my saying so, sir, you’re looking a bit peaked.”

The glass of water between them might not have been there before, but the barkeep can’t seem to remember. He is suddenly overwhelmingly thirsty and drinks it all down. The amount of energy he receives from the water seems almost unbelievable.

Aziraphale leaves the bar in search of the saloon’s back room. Around a corner and behind a beaded curtain he finds an isolated hallway. He follows the sound of conversation to the final room on the right and listens at the door for long moments, unable to distinguish between the voices, before entering the room.

“Hello, gentlemen!” Aziraphale says. “How much to buy in?”

The men around the table turn as one to glare at him. Out of the shadows emerges a wide-brimmed hat and the man attached to it - Crowley, who looks like he’s seen a ghost, even behind the dark glasses. “Aziraphale?” 

Crowley stands and snaps his fingers to freeze the humans in the room. Walks closer, tearing off his glasses to verify what he is seeing. “It really is you,” he says very quietly, then clears his throat and continues: “Huh. Took you long enough.”

They leave together, and the poker players forget about the now unoccupied chair at the table. Crowley’s chips insinuate themselves into the other men’s piles. 

Crowley leads Aziraphale back into the saloon proper and finds them a table by the window. Aziraphale sits down and Crowley sits in the chair beside him so they can watch the world going by together.

“I must say, Crowley, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you dressed quite so . . . well.”

Crowley tips his hat and peers at Aziraphale over his glasses. “Ruggedly?”

Crowley’s wearing black from head to toe, which isn’t unusual, but the clothing itself looks about as authentic as a dime novel cowboy’s. A black bandana wrapped slackly around his neck, a waistcoat made of shiny treated leather, and then there is the hat. The hat is paramount.

“It’s certainly different,” Aziraphale allows.

“Well you know what they say: new century, new you.”

“And those boots. Well.”

Crowley crosses his legs to showcase them. Reddish snakeskin and gleamingly steel toed. “Made to measure. They weren’t cheap, but they’re as comfortable as going barefoot.”

“I’m sure.” Aziraphale continues to study him. “Your hair hasn’t been this short since . . . Well, I can’t remember when.”

“The 17th century. Lice was no joke for awhile there,” Crowley says, removing his hat and running his fingers through the artfully choppy strands on top. The sides are much more closely cropped and it gives his face an especially angular look. “Between the hats and the heat, here, it’s just easier to keep it a bit shorter. Have you _ever_ changed your hair, angel? Beyond sideburn length, I mean.”

“Not more than is necessary to blend in,” Aziraphale says primly. “Any more than that would just be vanity, wouldn’t it?”

“Oh, of course, silly me,” Crowley says, then gestures to Aziraphale’s general person. “But clothes are a different matter, I see. That velvet is crucial to Heaven’s earthly mission, I’m sure. And the silk.“ He peers closer. “And, I’m sorry, are those cufflinks _real_ silver, or . . . ”

“All right, all right, that’s quite enough. May I ask what you’ve been up to all this time? Or is that classified?”

“Oh you know, this and that. Going to and fro on the earth, and walking up and down on it. I slept quite a lot, believe it or not. You ought to try it - stupendously relaxing, and boy does it ever kill time.”

So Crowley had just been committing sloth without a care in the world or a thought toward his opposite number. Well, that’s to be expected of a demon, isn’t it? “You alluded to a supernatural threat in your letter . . . “

“Ah, yes. No, I’m afraid that didn’t pan out. It ended up being overzealous gossip that got out of hand, rather. You know how people love a good story. They kept on retelling it, and embellishing, and some people were even accusing prominent citizens of vampirism and well, their lawyers weren’t too keen on that. What about you?”

“I’m sorry?”

Crowley grins. “Why you’re here . . . ?”

“Ohhh, right, right. Well, Head Office is wanting a bit more of a presence here now that the United States has become a bigger world power.”

“Right,” Crowley says. “Shall I bugger off then? Let you get to it?”

“Get to . . . ? “

“I assume you’ve got wiles to thwart?”

“Oh, yes. Certainly I do. But . . . Well. There’s no reason for me to rush ahead without adequate preparation, is there? And what’s more - I believe you had mentioned something about beignets?”

Crowley’s grin widens.

“Mmmmm. Mm mm _mm_.”

“Good, huh?”

“Mm hmm.” Aziraphale finishes chewing the perfectly fried piece of dough. “Sinfully so. You were right.”

It’s not a park they’re in so much as a cheerful green square with a fountain at its center. The humid air is heavy with the perfume of exotic flowers. Broad-leafed palm trees like Aziraphale hasn’t seen for centuries.

“Would you like some?” Aziraphale offers.

Crowley shakes his head. “Nah. I got sick of those pretty quickly when I first moved here.”

“What a terrible trial that must have been for you,” Aziraphale says, but he’s fixating on Crowley’s choice of words: _moved_ here? “May I ask where you’re staying?”

“It’s a nice little place a couple of blocks north. One of those big old mansions converted into apartments. The locals aren’t too keen on living there, though, so it’s nice and quiet.”

“Why is that?”

“Oh, they think it’s haunted,” Crowley says dismissively.

Aziraphale laughs. “Excuse me?”

“Some old aristocrat thought it’d be fun to murder her slaves in there. Maybe she bathed in their blood in the pursuit of eternal youth. Anyway, most people don’t hang their hat at the mansion for long.” Crowley shrugs. “I guess the ghosts know better than to fuck with me.”

“Oh dear. One of your side’s, I take it?

“Ohhh no. That’s just your good old fashioned, genuine humanity, I’m afraid. If you ask me, they’re better at tempting themselves than I’ll ever be. And I’m _good_.”

Aziraphale makes a face. “I do so hate to admit you’re right. On the plus side, they are often better at doing good deeds, too.”

Crowley rolls his eyes. He’s somehow able to convey the gist of it from behind his glasses. “You don’t really believe that.”

Aziraphale frowns. “Yes I do.”

“Name one.”

“Well I don’t have a list of examples off the top of my head, but you have to admit that the human capacity for love and generosity can be great indeed. Sometimes.”

“Yeah, when they’re not enslaving one another or cannonballing their neighbors to smithereens.”

Aziraphale sighs. “It’s all a matter of perspective.”

Crowley seems to run out of scorn to throw at him and his shoulders loosen a little. He points to the remainder of the last beignet. “You gonna eat that?”

Aziraphale shakes his head and hands it over. Crowley gets powder all over his slick black outfit and Aziraphale rather likes it that way.

“So, angel. What are you plans for this evening?”

“Nothing to speak of.”

“Then can I tempt you to my favorite jazz club?”

The day wanes slowly toward nightfall, inky blue overhead fading to glowy purple clouds at the horizon. Traffic dwindles down to merrymakers in roving groups and the bustle of the city relaxes into moonlit leisure. In the brief marshland by the water, frogs and chiming insects compete with the manmade soundscape.

Streets are narrower in the district they end up in, and Aziraphale keeps bumping into people and feeling how happy or sad or lustful they are. The buildings are simpler here, less adorned with balconies and hanging plants. Crowley catches Aziraphale’s arm to aim him in the right direction and seems to forget to remove his hand until they arrive at the club. 

The club’s facade is nothing to speak of, but inside it is dark and drenched with atmosphere - sound, cigarette smoke, and the shimmer of people dancing. Little lamps on the tabletops dressed in fringed red shades. Much of the clientele have darker skin than the people on the city’s more tree-lined streets. Music is omnipresent, thrilling and fast and unending in its variation, leaning on strange bent notes and non chord tones and feeling more like a conversation than a performance. Aziraphale is saturated in the joyfulness of the players and the frenzy of the patrons. Dizzy with it. The beat of the music gets muddled with emotion.

Things just seem less black and white in the dusky red world of the club, and that makes it easy to fall back into the ritual of drinking together. Some kind of wordlessly agreed upon period during which they might say too much and are able to blame the alcohol. The libations change with the times, although mostly they resort to wine. Aziraphale doesn’t often drink whisky, but Crowley keeps ordering more of it and he finds himself enjoying the depths of its flavor. 

“The devil’s music, eh?” Aziraphale raises an eyebrow. “Well. Well I know’t can’t be your doing - you would’a named it Crowley’s Music.”

Crowley is sprawled across a bench. He rolls his head back and forth dramatically. “Oh _come_ on, Aziraphale. Give me a bit more credit’n’at.”

Aziraphale leans forward and the room spins pleasantly in shades of red. “What a lovely place, Crowley. What a lovely music. Mean it. S’not the devil’s music atall . . . “

“Antoine? Antoine, is that you, cher?” A woman in an exhaustively elaborate dress bustles over to them and sits unceremoniously on Crowley’s lap. “We have not seen you here in weeks!”

“Ciao, bella! No wait. Lazy bons temps roulette. Sshit, what is it?”

The woman notices Aziraphale and winks broadly at him. “Oh, and hello to your handsome compatriote, as well. I am Nathalie.”

“Ziraphale.”

She does a double take. “Pardon?”

Crowley interjects: “Nathalie here is what _your_ sort would call an unfortunate, as they say in merry ol’ England . . . “

“I am far from unfortunate with such fine company for this evening. You old scalawag, you . . . “ She strokes up Crowley’s arm lazily.

Aziraphale doesn’t know what a scalawag is, but he certainly doesn’t like the sound of it. “Now see dear, my here girl. No. See _here_ . . . lady. I dunno who you think you are, but Crowley is the finest human, well er, human lookin’ guy I’ve ever known! Saved m’life once or twice, lemme tell you!”

Crowley surges back to life and nearly upsets Nathalie’s perch. “Nu uh. None’a that.” He turns to her beseechingly. “I’m bad to the bone . . . “

“Nooo he’s just bein’ modest.” Aziraphale scoots closer on the bench to poke Crowley for emphasis. “Busted me outta the big house in Paris, he did. Not to mention that incident with the snakes in Marrakech . . . ”

Crowley groans. “Do _not_ bring that up, angel.”

“I _will_ bring it up, Crawley,” Aziraphale insists. “You c’n be heroic when you wanna be, m’dear.”

Nathalie smiles at them both. “You will have to excuse me, gentlemen. An old friend of mine has just arrived.” She stands, readjust her skirts and disappears into the shadows.

Crowley and Aziraphale stumble out of the club some time later into deserted streets. The smell of dust and industry doesn’t so much abate as they near the waterfront as become swirled up into sweet gulf breezes. It’s densely humid still, but nighttime has given the air a chilly edge - it’s been years since Aziraphale lived in a place like this for any length of time. It occurs to him that he’s possibly languished in London for too many centuries, but he can’t quite bring himself to actually leave it for good.

Crowley leads them to the water, out of range of the streetlights and beyond the loitering fishermen. He sits on the edge of the dock and pockets his glasses. Aziraphale much prefers Crowley without them - it softens him a little.

“What a peaceful night,” Aziraphale says. 

“Hmf.” Crowley feels far from peaceful beside him. He’s leaning over his legs and looking dully out over the water. They sit for long minutes, the silence broken only by the splash of waves against dark closed up fishing boats and the occasional pelican swooping by.

“What took you so long?” Crowley asks quietly. They’ve sobered up quite a bit since the club, but the world is still hazy around the edges for Aziraphale. Sometimes it’s just easier this way.

“Whatever do you mean, dear boy?”

“I got on the very first ship and you didn’t come after me.”

Aziraphale frowns. “I . . . didn’t know I was supposed to. You asked me _not_ to, Crowley.”

Crowley looks to him, eyes very expressive in a way that Aziraphale sometimes forgets he’s capable of. He looks impossibly sad. “Oh. Right.” 

Aziraphale tries a smile on. “I suppose I should know by now to never take a demon at his word.”

“Deception _is_ in the job description . . . “

Aziraphale reaches out impulsively to pat his knee but Crowley flinches away. “Perhaps you ought to sober up.”

But Crowley isn’t listening. “You know, you’re right. I had no reason to expect you to follow me here. I always find you and you always tolerate it, but it’s never the other way around. And why should I expect anything more than that? You said it yourself - you shouldn’t be fraternizing with my sort anyway.”

Aziraphale shakes his head. “Don’t say that. We’re all God’s creatures.”

“Oh yes? Not all of us made the cut, you know. Turns out some angels are more equal than others.”

Aziraphale’s mouth tightens. “No, that’s not true.”

“Forget angels and demons, just think of all the torment He inflicts upon his _favorite_ children. I mean, is that _really_ the kind of ineffable plan you wanna get behind, Aziraphale?”

Aziraphale sighs. “Do shut up, Crowley . . . ”

“Make me.” He sounds defeated instead of challenging. “Honestly, I’d like to see you try. You won’t, though - you’re too much of a - mmf.”

Aziraphale hadn’t meant to kiss him, hadn’t even made a decision to do so. He’d just needed to thwart whatever mental torture Crowley had trapped himself in. Crowley freezes, but when Aziraphale begins to pull away his hand travels lightning fast to catch Aziraphale’s lapel and keep him there. Crowley leans back in and brushes their mouths together more carefully, licks experimentally along Aziraphale’s lips until they part and things go red and dizzy. Aziraphale has to close his eyes, has to retaliate against Crowley’s invasive tongue and has to feel his shivery response by clutching at his arms. Crowley curls ever closer, sliding his hands into Aziraphale’s hair and knocking his hat off and panting pointlessly. Crowley tastes like confections and whisky and humanness.

A clamoring trolley bell startles them apart.

Crowley fumbles for his glasses, checking at least three empty pockets before he is successful. He crams them onto his nose and stands and dusts himself off busily. “It’s getting late.”

“Right. Of course.” Aziraphale’s voice comes out rather hoarsely and he has to clear his throat. He stands as well, picks up his hat and dusts it off.

“To be honest, I’ve become rather accustomed to sleeping at night, now. So I really should be getting back - “

“Of _course_, of course. And I’ve got to, you know - “

“Thwart your thingie, yes. You’ll be needing to prepare for that.”

“Exactly,” Aziraphale sighs. “Well, then. Goodni-”

“Bye,” Crowley says, and bolts.

*

“Can I help you find anything, sir?”

Aziraphale closes the book he’d been inspecting. “Oh, no. Thank you.”

The shopkeeper shrugs and meanders back up the aisle. Aziraphale reopens the book and deflates a little when he notices the publication date. He puts it back and progresses to the U’s.

Aziraphale had first passed the bookshop yesterday. It’s quite a bit different from his own shop - not as dusty, certainly. It’s more open and much less cluttered, although the wall by the register is plastered with fliers for women’s suffrage and various other demonstrations, and wanted posters.

The bell above the shop door rings and Aziraphale ignores it out of habit. He doesn’t even look up until a familiar shadow falls over him. Crowley looks different in the morning light - more immediate, somehow. 

“Hey,” Crowley says.

“Hi. Hello,” Aziraphale says. Then, “How did you know I’d be here?”

“Oh, don’t be an idiot,” Crowley replies, and whatever tension had stuck between them slips away. Aziraphale is glad to see it go.

Crowley grazes the spines of the books with his fingertips. “Have you got into the voodoo stuff yet?”

“I’m sorry?”

“Local religion, bit heretical. From what I can gather the gist is you pray to a spirit for help with things.”

“To God?”

“Well yes, I think, but also to lesser beings. Kind of like us, but not strictly good or evil.”

Aziraphale picks up a book with ‘Voodoo’ on the cover in red letters. “That’s all well and good, but one can’t actually _have_ good without evil.”

“So what you’re saying is that good has no merit on its own, but is just made to look (literally) _good_ because evil exists?”

Aziraphale puts the book back. “If that was some kind of temptation, Crowley, then I’m sorry to say your technique is perhaps a bit rusty.”

Crowley’s mouth quirks up. “You caught me - I do have an ulterior motive. I know you’re in America on other business, but before you leave town there’s something I’d like you to see.”

“Oh?”

“Come on.”

Outside the bookshop stands a gorgeously shiny black horse. Its alligator skin saddle is heavily ornamented and even the bridle looks expensive. Crowley surprises Aziraphale by walking right up to the horse and unhitching her from a post.

“I would expect nothing less,” Aziraphale says. “What’s her name?”

“Bentley.” Crowley produces a carrot out of nowhere and feeds it to her. “I bought her off a Spanish racehorse breeder - apparently she wasn’t good enough for racing, but she’s as fast as anything, so . . . “ He shrugs. “Had her from birth and she hasn’t let me down yet.”

But Aziraphale is just frowning. “Horses normally hate you, don’t they? Because of, well, you know . . . “

“The demon thing?”

“I was going to say the snake thing.”

“Well, Bentley doesn’t hate me. She wouldn’t dare.” He leaps lithely up onto the horse in a manner defying the laws of physics.

“You cheated.”

“_That’s_ a demon thing. Now come on, up you get.”

“You don’t actually expect me to get on a horse with you. Mightn't we take the trolley?

Crowley shakes his head. “We’re going out of the city.”

“For what purpose, exactly?”

“All will be revealed,” Crowley says with an air of mystery. Aziraphale is unmoved. “Come on, trust me.”

Aziraphale hasn’t ridden a horse in decades - he avoided it whenever possible. It just seemed intrinsically rude to have an animal do your bidding like that. Humans were the ones given dominion over the animals of the Earth, so Aziraphale figures it’s something best left to them. He hooks his shoe into the stirrup and tries to heave himself up but the angle goes wrong somehow and he just twists back to the ground. Bentley swishes her luxurious tail, but seems otherwise indifferent. Aziraphale gets some better momentum going for his second attempt and promptly collapses again.

Crowley sighs and just miracles Aziraphale up onto the horse behind the saddle. Aziraphale doesn’t put up a fuss.

They ride for the better part of an hour before they are truly clear of civilization. All that remains are farm houses, and those only occasionally. The land opens up and the sky yawns bluely overhead. Swampy land with a menagerie of sleek pastel birds.

Riding a horse again is awkward enough, but sharing one with Crowley is an entirely new level of discomfort. Aziraphale has to hold tightly to the flaps of Crowley’s waistcoat, and the bounce of the horse makes his knuckles dent softly into Crowley’s sides. More immediate is the smell of him - subtly spicy and terribly familiar - beneath the smells of horse and leather and vegetative air. What begins as an awkward physical closeness becomes comforting by the end of their journey. It feels good to be anchored, even if it is by a demon.

Crowley guides Bentley down a smaller tributary to the main road where the brush is close enough to prickle as they ride through it. Into the bayou proper, and they don’t pass another soul for miles. A lonely trail of smoke becomes visible above the treeline, and Crowley heads right for it. He guides Bentley off the beaten path and she slows to a stop in the shade of an expansive old tree. 

Lack of movement makes their proximity seem claustrophobic, now. “Er, should I dismount first, or - ?”

Crowley taps Aziraphale’s hands, which are still latched onto him. “I would, but you’ll have to let go of me first.”

Aziraphale feels jolted by the unexpected touch and miracles himself to the ground in a hurry. He makes a show of dusting himself off and stretching out his legs. “_Will_ you tell me why we are here now, Crowley?”

Crowley stays frozen on the horse with his hands empty for a moment before dismounting. He reaches into Bentley’s saddlebag, unfurls a yellowed scroll with a flourish, and hands it to Aziraphale.

> _WANTED_  
$70 REWARD!  
For the CAPTURE ALIVE of  
BERT “DEAD EYE” BULLOCK  
Charged and wanted for questioning in cases of  
ROBBERY and FRAUD 

Aziraphale raises an eyebrow. “I see. If you were hard up for money, dear boy, you had only to ask for a loan.”

Crowley snatches up the wanted poster. “Dead Eye has been wreaking havoc in the city for a few years now. The _Picayune_ has dubbed him the Robin Hood du Bayou and he’s become something of a folk hero. Anyway, I thought you might appreciate the opportunity to thwart me. You know, for old time’s sake.”

“Thwart you . . . “ Aziraphale shakes his head. “You mean for me to capture him?”

“Yes I - wait, no. No, I thought you’d like to stop _me_ from capturing him.”

Aziraphale frowns. “Wouldn’t that be a good deed?”

“I . . . ”

“Stealing is an evil deed, yes?”

“Broadly, but he _is_ stealing from terrible people with more money than they know what to do with.”

“Now now. You oughtn’t to assume all wealthy people are by definition immoral.”

“You _are_ joking.”

They stare at each other.

Crowley finally breaks the silence: “Giving to the poor is a good deed. You should be in favor of that sort of thing, shouldn’t you? ‘Kindness to the poor is a loan to the Lord’ ?”

“Yes, of course, but . . . ” Aziraphale’s head hurts, and the sun and the whirring cicadas are making it hard to concentrate. “Why don’t we speak with the man before we go doing anything one way or the other, shall we? Come along.”

Crowley follows him cautiously into the trees. Spanish moss makes the outlaw’s camp feel extra secluded, and indeed the man is crouched over a fire and doesn’t notice their approach.

Crowley tries to hold Aziraphale back but Aziraphale shakes him off and strides forward into the clearing. “Hello! Hello there, good sir!”

The outlaw knocks over an assortment of biscuits in his haste to stand up and face them. He’s drawn a revolver in the blink of an eye. “Who goes there?” he calls.

Aziraphale holds his hands up placatingly but continues to advance. “Now, Mr Dead Eye, I promise you there’s no need for violence.“

“It’s Bret, actually,” Bullock says. “But that ain’t much of a gunslinger name . . . ”

“Yes, branding certainly is important,” Aziraphale says. “Now, we only wish to ask you a few questions, and then I promise we’ll be out of your hair.”

Crowley edges forward into the clearing and offers a little wave. Bullock squints at him. “You’re Pinkertons, ain’tcha? You look the part, sure ‘nuff.”

“I beg your - “

“That’s right,” Crowley interjects. “And the Agency has been on your trail for quite some time now, Bullock. Give us one good reason why we shouldn’t arrest you right now.”

Bullock scoffs. “Oh, that’s easy, friend: ‘cause I’ll shoot you first.” He aims his revolver at Crowley’s chest.

Aziraphale scowls. “I say, there is _really_ no need for that!”

Bullock glances over at him. “How’s that? You gonna just walk on out of here and forget you ever saw me?”

“Absolutely!” Aziraphale says. “I give you my word.”

“I dunno . . . witnesses are always trouble no matter what they say when you have a gun on ‘em . . . ” Bullock levels the gun at Aziraphale instead.

“_Aziraphale_,” Crowley hisses.

It all happens so fast. Bullock fires the gun and Crowley lurches in front of Aziraphale in time for the bullet to embed itself in his arm.

Aziraphale makes a complicated gesture and everything stops. Bullock and the gunsmoke puffing up by his hand are frozen in place. Aziraphale spins Crowley around to face him. “_Why did you do that?_”

Crowley winces and rubs over his injured arm to melt the wound away. He catches the bullet when it pops out and tosses it to the ground. “You’re welcome.”

Crowley is so nonchalant that Aziraphale becomes enraged. He shoves at him, not knowing what to do with the feeling. “You could’ve been killed! I swear you have a death wish, Crowley!”

Crowley pushes his glasses up onto his head, the better to glare at him. “You know what? Next time I’ll just let you be discorporated!” he says sharply. “You don’t need my help, and you _certainly_ don’t want it. I hear you loud and clear, Aziraphale. Duly noted. You will be left well alone!”

Aziraphale deflates a little. “Crowley.” 

“And another thing!” Crowley yells, caught in some kind of spiral of anger now. “What was last night about, anyway? Why do you always _do_ things like that? You never play fair.”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you, er, that is I . . . “

“You’re all buddy buddy one century and cold and sanctimonious the next. What is the point of kissing me like that? There’s no point to it because it doesn’t go anywhere. You act so high and mighty but you can be cruel, Aziraphale. I just, I mean - _what did you think was going to happen?_”

“I wasn’t thinking, obviously! Even angels aren’t infallible. Only the Almighty - ”

A prehistoric roar interrupts them. Aziraphale whirls around to find its source and is met with a truly monstrous alligator snapping at them from the bulrushes. Crowley responds with a reptilian roar of his own and the animal splashes away into the marshland lighting fast. The timing of the alligator feels a little too convenient, maybe even divinely so, and Aziraphale thinks Crowley must agree because they immediately exchange worried glances.

“Perhaps we ought to leave,” Aziraphale says.

“Yeah. Should we, er - ?” He gestures to Bullock.

Aziraphale sighs. “Oh, don’t be ridiculous. We’re not _killing_ him.” He unfreezes time and they watch as the outlaw turns robotically, curls up on his bedroll, and begins to snore.

The sun is a heavy orange bloom in the sky when they arrive back in the city. Crowley takes a different route, riding past factories and shanty towns and reminding Aziraphale unhappily of the side effects of industrial marvels. Moisture hangs in the air and captures the changing hues of the sun as it nears the horizon, slipping from gold to red and into twilit purples. Cooler air off the water begins flowing through the streets. Crowley and Aziraphale haven’t said two words to each other since leaving the outlaw.

Crowley heads for a stable nestled between two enormous brick warehouses. The journey back was only made more tense by their enforced closeness, but as soon as they dismount and Aziraphale is rid of Crowley he feels bereft. Crowley leads Bentley inside, leaving Aziraphale on the street to focus on ignoring the many layered guilt that is fogging up his mind.

Crowley emerges from the stables and into the buttery wash of a streetlight. “Listen, angel . . . well, I’m sorry, is the thing.” He keeps shuffling his weight around. “Though I’d appreciate if you didn’t go spreading that around. You understand.” 

Aziraphale can’t hide his relief, reaching out to lay a hand on Crowley’s shoulder comfortingly. “You were right about - “

Crowley recoils and Aziraphale’s hand falls. “Goodnight,” he says, and walks back up the street.

Aziraphale lets his hand fall back to his side. “Bye.”

* 

No humans inhabit the stable this early in the morning - only horses, and most of them are sleeping. Aziraphale walks gingerly through the stalls. There are fabulously expensive and rare breeds here, and the feeling inside is much more upper class than Aziraphale would’ve expected from the neighborhood that surrounds it.

He finds Bentley’s stall in a particularly well-kept wing of the stable. She is awake, and her calm black eyes seem to recognize him. Aziraphale takes the bag of oat cakes from his coat and feeds them to her. She snuffles around for more when they’re gone.

“I’m sorry, but that’s all I had,” Aziraphale tells her. He relents quickly in the face of Bentley’s beseeching gaze, though, and miracles another couple of cakes for her. In the distance something clangs, and Aziraphale can sense Crowley’s approach.

Crowley rounds the corner into Bentley’s area of the stable and Aziraphale can see he’s startled before he has a chance to hide it. “I thought you left,” Crowley says, walking over as casually as you please. He opens Bentley’s stall door and Aziraphale follows him inside.

Aziraphale clears his throat. “I just wanted to let you know I visited the police station this morning and they are no longer aware of any wanted vigilantes in the city. Furthermore, they will miraculously look the other way should they see him.”

Crowley produces a brush from thin air and sets to brushing Bentley’s mane. “So who’s going to take credit for this one?”

“It could go both ways, couldn’t it? The goodness or badness of it really depends on one’s perspective.”

Crowley brushes up at the same time that Aziraphale reaches over to stroke Bentley’s ear and their hands crash together. Crowley doesn’t move, but Aziraphale can feel him watching out of the corner of his eye. Aziraphale strokes over the back of his tanned bony hand and Crowley still doesn’t move. When Aziraphale takes the brush out of his hand it seems to jolt Crowley into action - he turns and crowds into Aziraphale, forces him to back up until he hits the rough wooden wall of the stable. It feels very predatory but when Crowley kisses him it’s soft and barely there, and terribly dizzying. Overwhelming and blissfully easy to fall into. Aziraphale doesn’t need to breathe, but he pulls away to give his brain a chance to catch up with his body.

“Sorry, it’s just . . . “ But Crowley hasn’t backed off. He can’t seem to stop running his hands up and down Aziraphale’s arms.

“I don’t want to stop, but - well, it _is_ a bit manurey in here, don’t you think?” 

Crowley snorts. “Point taken.” He snaps his fingers and they land in a dimly-lit bedroom. Lace curtains obscure the windows and the walls and bedspread are choked with crimson brocade. The bustle of the street is at a low hum somewhere below them.

“Is this is your haunted flat?”

“It’s not _haunted_,” Crowley says. “Just a bit cursed.”

Aziraphale couldn’t care less if they were in a church, at this point. He pushes Crowley’s stupid hat off and kisses him. Crowley’s hands rest tentatively on Aziraphale’s hips while Aziraphale runs his fingers through his hair. Crowley disrupts the kiss a little to push his glasses up his nose and off and tosses them onto the dresser. The sounds he’s making into Aziraphale’s mouth are so very appealing, and he loves and hates that Crowley can be so vulnerable around him. He wants to slap Crowley for his recklessness sometimes, but kissing might just be a more expedient alternative. And besides, Crowley tastes good, and smells good, and the way he clutches at Aziraphale makes his heart pound needlessly. 

Crowley pushes Aziraphale’s coat off and starts unbuttoning the shirt but their hands tangle up. Aziraphale is suddenly aware of how sensitive his fingertips feel - merely brushing against skin is unbearably electric. He draws a nail down Crowley’s shirt and encourages the fabric to give way. Crowley laughs, but his pupils are so dilated that his eyes look human. He nudges closer to make their skin slide together, latches onto Aziraphale’s neck with his mouth. Bites and sucks and _mmm_’s when Aziraphale shivers. Aziraphale gets lost in the sensation for awhile but then has to tug Crowley up by the hair to kiss him again. Crowley’s mouth is wet and bruised now and the kisses veer lascivious. 

“Fuck, there are ssooo many things I wanna show you . . . “

“Show _me_?” Aziraphale pulls back a little. “What makes you think I’m inexperienced?”

Crowley’s tousled hair and shirtlessness makes his annoyance look especially ridiculous. “Well, you’ve never exactly made an effort about this sort of thing before,” he says testily. “Remember that ship we got stuck on in the tenth century?”

“But you weren’t _seducing_ me.” Aziraphale struggles to remember, distracted by the feeling of Crowley’s bare chest - the contours and ribs and patches of hair. “Were you?”

Crowley rolls his eyes. “What did you think I was doing dressed like a bloody slave girl?”

“_Well_,” Aziraphale says pointedly. “I suppose I don’t judge people based on their choice of attire.”

“It was Volga Bulgaria,” Crowley says. “In January.”

Aziraphale’s fingertips skim accidentally over his nipple and Crowley makes gives a little growl and tenses.

“Look,” Crowley says hoarsely, “let’s table this for now, shall we?”

“That’s a wonderful idea.”

Crowley sits on the edge of the bed, tugging Aziraphale down beside him. Something about the momentum propels them back into kissing. Crowley is less gentle now, pushing him and pushing him with the force of it until Aziraphale has to fall backward onto the mattress. He only has a minute to study the ceiling before it’s overshadowed by Crowley, who is backlit and dark and glowing around the edges. Crowley hovers over him without moving and even that seems to build the tension between them. Aziraphale cranes his head up for a kiss that Crowley sighs into, body melting down into Aziraphale as it deepens - dizzyingly, deliciously.

Crowley tears himself away and meanders his mouth down Aziraphale’s throat. He nips at the bared skin of his chest and stomach as he slides southward. When he reaches Aziraphale’s hips he traces the obvious outline of Aziraphale’s erection through the fabric of his trousers. Aziraphale’s hips lift up reflexively and Crowley chuckles before pressing firmly on his groin and letting him grind into it for awhile.

“Oh for heaven’s sake,” Aziraphale says impatiently, and he disappears both of their remaining clothing with a snap of his fingers.

“I don’t think heaven has much to do with it.” Crowley’s breath washes over his cock as he speaks, tantalizingly warm. “At least, I hope not.”

Aziraphale strains his neck up to look him in the eye. “Stop teasing me.”

Crowley licks broadly up the shaft in a manner that makes Aziraphale’s pulse quicken. “Never,” he says, muffled by his efforts to snake his tongue around the head simultaneously. “And that’s a promise.”

Crowley sucks his length in completely and makes Aziraphale gasp, humming approvingly around his mouthful and feeling up Aziraphale’s thighs and hips before pressing them down into the mattress like he’s daring him to thrust up. So Aziraphale does, and Crowley restrains him and glances up and smirks. 

Crowley licks down Aziraphale’s cock and lightly between his balls and back up again, takes the head in to drag along the roof of his mouth and then deeper and deeper, hitting the back of his throat and then Crowley swallows and the dazzling feeling of that makes Aziraphale curse. Aziraphale’s hands grab at Crowley’s shoulders and when his nails dig into the skin Crowley growls delectably around his cock. Aziraphale thrusts up experimentally and Crowley seems to understand, backing off and letting Aziraphale set the pace. The sight of Crowley’s wrecked hair and naked back and the little involuntary sounds he makes are enough to push Aziraphale over the edge, but coupled with the suction of Crowley’s mouth and his busy tongue it’s all too much too quickly. Crowley’s watery amber glances root the heightened planes of pleasure in reality and in Crowley and Aziraphale’s vision blurs in the face of that when he comes.

Crowley flops over onto his back, panting but grinning. Aziraphale, feeling floaty and wonderful, is somehow even more turned on by the way Crowley has draped himself across the bed with his sweaty chest rising and falling. Aziraphale shuffles closer, twining a leg around one of Crowley’s. He trails his fingers down Crowley’s sternum and kisses his bony shoulder. Crowley’s erection had flagged but it starts to harden, now.

“You should touch me,” Crowley says conversationally, though he’s squirming and short of breath.

Aziraphale raises his eyebrows. “Oh, should I?”

“Do you want me to beg or something?”

“Well, good manners do go a long way . . . “

Crowley pushes himself up onto his elbows to lick up Aziraphale’s chin and across his lips. “Come on.”

“Is that really all it took for Eve?” Aziraphale teases. “I have to admit I’m disappointed.”

Crowley shrugs and continues to kiss along Aziraphale’s jawline. “It’s easy when your mark wants to be tempted.”

“Are you calling me easy?”

“Oh, absolutely.”

Aziraphale’s fingers brush down Crowley’s body again, enjoying the jut of his hipbone and the way he shudders. He grazes the patch of coarse hair there before closing his hand around Crowley’s cock, which pulses at the attention and leaks from the tip. Aziraphale imagines a sweet smelling oil he remembers from Rome and it appears in his hand. He wraps it around Crowley to coat him with the oil, warming now with their body heat. Aziraphale pumps the shaft just once, firmly, and Crowley collapses onto his back again with a groan. “That’s sso nice . . . ”

Aziraphale shifts closer to him, biting his earlobe and making him hiss, sucking at his neck and twisting his free hand in Crowley’s damp hair. Aziraphale moves his hand more quickly over his cock and Crowley nods and grips his arm counterproductively. He writhes in the sheets, making sweet strangled sounds with his eyes scrunched closed.

“Yeah yeah. Just a little faster.”

“Crowley . . . ”

“Come _on_ . . . ”

“You look perfect.” Aziraphale has to kiss him - upsetting the rhythm for a moment but it’s worth it for Crowley’s hands in his hair and the helpless noise he makes as he spills into his hand. It all deflates from there, boneless bodies readjusting on their sides for slower, lazier kisses that eventually taper off. They lie with their faces very close for long minutes and breathe.

Crowley’s voice is scratchy: “Well, consider me thwarted for the next, oh, let’s just call it an even century.”

“Whatever you say,” Aziraphale says vaguely, flopping onto his back again.

The sounds of the muffled traffic below reassert themselves in the relative silence of their slowing breath. Horses clopping by and the trolley bell in the distance, and people laughing as they burst out of the saloon across the street. Aziraphale finally gets a chance to really study the room - it might once have been a finely decorated chamber, but the wallpaper has faded in places and the furniture is a little shabby. Lacy curtains throw speckles of light across the wine-colored bedspread.

“I’ve been thinking,” Crowley says. “Us being on separate continents is bound to become a hassle, when you get right down to it. Logistical nightmare, really.”

“Do you think so?”

“Uh huh.” Crowley stretches languidly. “I really ought to head back to England soon. You know, just to even things out.”

“Well, when you put it that way - there’s not much reason for me to stay in America, either.”

“I mean it’s just more convenient, is the thing.”

Aziraphale nods and edges closer to him. “Mutually beneficial.”

“Exactly,” Crowley says, stroking through Aziraphale’s hair absently.

*

“Pardon me, sir.” The man with the bowler hat approaches Aziraphale at the railing. “I wonder if you know how long it will be until we dock? I’ve never traveled by steamboat before, you see.”

“Neither have I, I’m afraid,” Aziraphale says. “But I’m sure the time will fly by - the scenery here is just wonderful, don’t you think?” The city has been left behind by now and there is little evidence of humanity to tarnish the countryside. Only trees and underbrush and wild fields beyond the dark expanse of river whose cool coppery scent washes over the deck. The boat chugs past herons and little families of ducks, and against the current.

“Oh!” the man exclaims. “Good heavens, it’s been ages since I ran into another Briton. May I ask how long you’ve been stateside?”

“Not very long, actually. I should’ve liked to see more of it, but to be honest I’m beginning to be homesick.”

“I can certainly understand that,” the man says. “America was supposed to be a grand new adventure. Just me and my business partner against the world - well, more than a business partner. My best friend, really.” He gazes wistfully into the river.

Aziraphale shifts uncomfortably. “I, ahem, take it your business venture didn’t pan out?”

The man shakes his head. “No. And somewhere along the way I lost my friend . . . ” 

“Oh, er. I’m terribly sorry, old chap.”

The man forces a laugh. “Yes, well. Here’s hoping we’ll be able to reunite back home. I have certainly spent long enough searching for him here.”

“Well, I wish you all the best.”

He smiles wanly, miles away. “Anyway, I really ought to be getting on,” the man says, and continues along the deck with slumped shoulders. Aziraphale can’t help but ensure he will find his friend waiting for him at the Liverpool docks.

Clouds are thinning out overhead, losing some of their puffy whiteness and merging into a wide gray blanket across the sky. The sun is already behind the treeline, but its light hasn’t faded, yet. Chattering cicadas overlap with emerging evening insects.

Crowley joins Aziraphale at the railing, a path of darkness in Aziraphale’s periphery. “Lovely view, isn’t it, cher?”

Aziraphale raises an eyebrow at him. “When was the last time we were on a boat together?”

Crowley rocks back on his heels and taps on the railing while he considers. “Were you with me on _The Beagle_?”

“No, I’m afraid not. Politics, you know.”

“Oh, isn’t it always?” Crowley doesn’t sound bitter, though. He turns his attention to the soupy clouds now blushing with sunset. The trees and bushes on the riverbanks desaturate, turning unnatural dusktime colors as the daylight wanes.

“Do you know, I wish I _had_ joined you,” Aziraphale says. “You’re not so bad. For a demon, I mean.”

“Is that so?”

“You have good taste in wine, for one thing.”

Crowley turns to face Aziraphale, leaning back against the railing. “Your taste in food isn’t bad, either. For an angel, I mean.”

Aziraphale moves over to cage Crowley against the railing, ducking in to steal a kiss which Crowley breaks with a grin he can’t seem to stop. Crowley slings an arm around Aziraphale’s shoulders, and they stroll onward along the deck.

*


End file.
